


Perfection is a Painful Thing

by TheGoliathBeetle



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Adolf Hitler - Freeform, All the characters have issues, Anorexia, Anxiety, Bulimia, Concentration Camps, DON'T READ IT IF IT TRIGGERS YOU, Depression, Derogatory Language, Gen, Genocide, Graphic Violence, Historical!Hetalia, I'm Sorry, This is the darkest thing I've ever written, Unhappy Ending, Very triggering, graphic descriptions of self-harm, hinted suicide, seriously don't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5712886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoliathBeetle/pseuds/TheGoliathBeetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s what happens, Ludwig. You can’t murder hordes and hordes of your own people, you can’t torture them, without it affecting you. Now you may think that the people you kill are different, that they are somehow not German, but Germany was their home, and that’s what matters.” </p><p>x.</p><p>In World War Two, Hitler made Germany and Prussia kill their own. It was a nation-state in the act of self-harming. Ludwig cuts, Gilbert purges, and nobody ever wins wars. </p><p>x.</p><p>Highly triggering content. Don't read this if it disturbs you. Please consult the tags. I'm really concerned about this; don't sacrifice your mental health for a fanfiction, because this story is both graphic and joyless and does not end well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfection is a Painful Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Extremely triggering themes (self-harm, anorexia, bulimia, anxiety, depression.) Derogatory language. The Holocaust. Extremely, extremely dark. You may be triggered. PLEASE don’t read it if any of this bothers you, please, please. This is the darkest thing I’ve ever written. You have been warned.

_9th November 1938_

 

It’s kind of...pretty. Isn’t it? The rain. Of glass. _Kristallnacht_ , Ludwig thinks. Crystal night.  It’s a night of broken glass. That’s a pretty name. Kristallnacht. The shards of windows are like stars on earth, and he looks up at the black sky and for a second wonders if Hitler would like this. Would he understand. This sound. Crunch...crunch...crunch…

 

Footsteps of his brother.

 

“Are you going to just stand there?” Gilbert barks. It shatters the peace within Ludwig’s eyes, and his gaze sharpens back to reality. There is a lot of noise. How had he not heard an entire street screaming as the S.A forces drag women, children out on the streets, break shop windows? There’s a bit of blood near his shoe. In the distance, a synagogue goes up in flames.

 

An odd sensation hits Ludwig. Right there, on his wrist. A sort of split-second panic. He clenches his fist, sets his jaw, and breathes out slowly. And the feeling goes away. Focus on Gilbert. “Didn’t think there was much for me to do.”

 

Gilbert holsters his gun. His red eyes catch the light of the burning synagogue, and there’s a vaguely haunted look in them that Ludwig cannot place. It’s there for only a second before his brother’s defences - oh, Gilbert is the most secretive person Ludwig knows - rise up to protect him, and the nation called Prussia smirks. “Should have seen him. This little screaming J _udenschwein_ , this filthy jewpig, the way he begged, Lud.” Gilbert’s voice gets higher, crueller, more mocking, “Have mercy, have mercy, I’m an old man!” His laugh his gruff. “Old man, I said, you’ve polluted this country long enough, don’t you think? And I’ll never forget the look in his eyes when I shot him right there. You should have seen it, Lud, the filthy fucking coward. Was crying. Like a weepy bitch.”

 

Ludwig exhales loudly through his nose, watching his men ravage and murder. The ones they spare tonight will find themselves marched away later. It’s a bit like spring cleaning, really. Getting rid of all the cockroaches. “I hear Austria’s doing the same thing.”

 

“Yeah, old Specs finally has a nightlife.” Gilbert snickers. “Although I never thought a pogrom was really his style, you know?”

 

“He’s done great things, don’t forget. He was a European empire once.”

 

“So was Spain, Ludwig. Now see where he is, in a fucking civil war. Let me tell you something, Lud, it’s these Others.”

 

Ludwig raises an eyebrow. “Others?”

 

Gilbert smirks, and Ludwig can see the glint in his teeth. “Take Roddy, for example. Great fucking multicultural empire, him and Hungary. See where that got them in the war? And Spain. Spain’s smart, let me tell you. He did then exactly what we’re doing now. Cleansing.”

 

“I don’t think I follow you,” Ludwig says patiently.

 

Gilbert steps forward and flicks his brother’s forehead. “The Inquisition, stupid. You see, every great nation needs a good cleaning now and then, or they rot. That’s what’s happened to Spain, letting those fucking Commies get to him. That’s what happened to Austria-Hungary in the Great War. Now they’ve come to their senses, thank goodness. And forget them, Lud, you remember _us_? You remember how dirt poor we were? It’s because of _them._ ” Gilbert casts a dirty look on an unconscious, blood-soaked man. The Other. The J _udenschwein_.

 

“Right, I see,” Ludwig agrees. “Hitler says the same thing.”

 

“Hitler,” Gilbert says approvingly, “Now that’s a man who knows his mind, right there.”

 

“They’re scared of us,” Ludwig says, his voice full of wonder. The air is punctuated by a feminine shriek. His eyes turn to the stars. “England. France. Terrified.”

 

“They’ll get what’s coming,” Gilbert says quietly. “Especially France.” There’s a second of silence. “Especially France.”

 

Ludwig turns his gaze back to his brother, but Gilbert is not looking at him. His red eyes are watching an S.A officer hit a child with a rifle butt. There’s another haunted look on his face. Ludwig turns to study the carnage around him, and under the flame of the synagogue, he reaches out to scratch his arm. There’s an itch there. A sort of hypersensitivity.

 

* * *

Ludwig stands outside the bathroom door, desperate to pee. It’s late. It’s silent. Gilbert should be asleep.

 

Instead, he can hear his brother retching, and when Ludwig dares to push the unlocked door open, he finds Gilbert on his knees before the commode, heaving into the bowl. His body shakes. When he is sick, Gilbert is a study in extremes. His already red eyes become bloodshot, and what accentuates the redness further is the way his bleached skin becomes completely white.

 

“What,” Ludwig says, his tone mildly exasperated, “did you eat?”

 

Gilbert doesn’t answer, so Ludwig goes over to him and helps his brother stand. Gilbert does a wonderful job of supporting his own weight, though, as he staggers to the sink to wash his mouth. “Go away, Lud,” he snaps, although his throat is raw and raspy. “I’ll handle it.”

 

Ludwig rolls his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

 

Wiping his face on a towel, Gilbert mutters, “Why don’t you go cuddle North Italy or something?”

 

“You clearly don’t need my help.”

 

“Didn’t I say so? Go away, Ludwig.”

 

Ludwig makes sure to slam the door as he closes it. He’ll just use the other bathroom downstairs. It doesn’t really matter.

 

* * *

_March 1939_

 

Austria has a scar under his sleeve. Ludwig almost doesn’t notice it, and he’s not going to ask, because he doesn’t really know Roderich very well. He knows _history_ , of course, enough history to understand that Roderich is more familiar with Gilbert than with him. Sometimes, Ludwig feels he’s the unrightful heir to Gilbert’s fortune. It was Prussia, after all, who facilitated the German Unification. It was Prussia who led the German people. It was Prussia who hand-crafted the German Empire, wrapped it up with a ribbon and handed it to Ludwig as a present.

 

Ludwig was nothing. A homeless personification. Someone that shadowed his far more successful older brother, someone who watched, awed, at the other German States. Saxony, Bavaria, Baden  and all the rest. _I want to be like them,_ Ludwig used to think. _But I’m not a kingdom._

 

_Good. Because I think you’re greater than a kingdom. Greater than all those useless, priggish little bastards who think they run the place. Greater than me, even._

 

_Greater than YOU, Gilbert?_

 

_I think you’re here for a very special reason, Lud. Deep down, I’ve always believed that. You’re not going to be a kingdom. You’re going to be a nation-state. You’re going to be an empire._

 

_What?! Me?_

 

_Yes, you. And I’m going to make you an empire if it’s the last thing I do._

 

_What…? How are you going to do that?_

 

_I’ve had this idea. I call it German Nationalism._

 

Ludwig takes a deep breath before marching forwards and directing Austria to the conference room. “Czechoslovakia, Germany?” Roderich questions as he steps past the threshold. “You’re going to attack Czechoslovakia?”

 

“Shut up, Rod,” Gilbert snaps. “Sit, chug a beer or something and be quiet. I wish I hadn’t told you. Look, the Fuhrer is going to come soon, so just act surprised when he tells you about it.”

 

Austria rolls his eyes and says nothing. As takeovers go, the Anschluss had been fairly easy.

 

“They’ve built a camp, you know,” Roderich says in a matter-of-fact tone. “In Mauthausen.”

 

“That’s…” Ludwig says, to be conversational, “Near Vienna?”

 

“It’s closer to the city of Linz,” Roderich corrects him. “And they’re going to start taking political prisoners soon. Before that it was just prostitutes and such. You know, street rats.”

 

Ludwig contemplates this as he sits and places both hands on the table. He watches his brother pour himself some beer from the cabinet on the wall. “We should build some more, I think. Camps. The prisoner numbers will start increasing soon.”

 

“Czechoslovakia?” Austria prompts again.

 

Gilbert sighs and says nothing to that, but the corner of Ludwig’s lips twitch upwards. “If all goes as planned...”

 

Austria leans forward. “Yes?”

 

“Poland.”

 

* * *

_It’s easy. You take a blade (a common razor will do), and you search for the perfect spot on your skin, wherever that may be. Wherever that will feel good. Just as long as the electric. Anxiety. Stops._

 

_You bring the blade down. Deeper. Let it go past your skin. Into you. And when it’s deep enough, you pull._

 

_And you don’t stop, not until there’s a red stream dripping from the ravine that is your body. You don’t stop until you can breathe easily once more._

 

* * *

 Why Germany has such an intense vision is not something he can explain, but his two-second zoning out during an exhausting meeting has left him shaken and wrung dry. That’s psychological mayhem. But he catches himself thinking about it more and more these days. Maybe it’s because of Austria’s scar. It’s foolish of Ludwig to get so worked up by it, because these are old nations, and old nations have battle scars all over. Gilbert has one on his shoulder from Napoleon’s days which he doesn’t like talking about. Scars. This is not new information for Ludwig.

 

Self-inflicted scars, however. That’s...that’s just…

 

Crazy.

 

(And he’s been thinking of it more and more often.)

 

“You look troubled,” Gilbert says as they step out of the meeting room. “You worried about Poland or something? That sonofabitch doesn’t know what’s going to hit him.”

 

“No,” Ludwig says slowly. “That’s not it.”

 

Gilbert stops and inclines his head curiously. “Then what’s wrong?”

 

Ludwig grabs his brother’s arm and gently pulls him towards a more secluded corner. “I want to ask you a serious question and I’d like an honest answer.”

 

His brother swallows. Honesty is not Gilbert’s forte. His brother, Ludwig knows, is not as he seems. Gilbert has a loud personality, but that has never changed the fact that internally - both politically, and as a result, emotionally - Gilbert is complex and more fragile than he appears. He has never even been a healthy kingdom. The strongest of kingdoms have some sort of uniformity, some sense of national pride. His people have not been as _Prussian_ as the Spaniards have been _Spanish_ or the French have been _Frenchmen._ They’ve first been Germans, Poles, Jews, Danes and Lithuanians, and _then_ Prussians. For centuries, Gilbert has gotten by on his bravado and military might, but Ludwig knows this is not enough. There’s a reason why Prussia melted into the German Empire so seamlessly. It was already on its way to dissimilation.

 

“Self-inflicted injury,” Ludwig says, and then nearly kicks himself for his tactlessness. He swallows. “Have you ever, you know, done it?”

 

Gilbert rests his weight on his heels, and leans into a casual slouch. “You mean like cut myself or some shit?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“No,” Gilbert says calmly, without breaking eye-contact to prove his innocence. “Can’t say the same about some of my friends, though.”

 

“Like who?” Ludwig asks, feeling a little sick.

 

Gilbert shrugs. “Spain. During the Inquisition. I found him once in the dead of night, sitting in his tomato field with an arm full of bleeding gashes. Romano doesn’t know, so don’t tell Veneziano about it. Spain doesn’t like people knowing.” Gilbert pauses, deliberates and then continues. “Russia does it. A lot. But he’s fucked up anyway. It’s become a lot worse now, what with Stalin and everything. Ah, who else? Let me remember.” Gilbert’s pause makes another jolt of anxiety rise to Ludwig’s heart. “France used to scratch his arms a lot. During the French Revolution. I don’t know if that counts.”

 

“It does,” Ludwig says rapidly, and then forces away the urge to dig his nails into his arms.

 

“Well, the Reign of Terror took it out of him, you know,” Gilbert goes on. “I think he would have killed himself if he could die. But France is, you know, emotional. It’s a bit pathetic, really.”

 

“What about England?” Ludwig asks.

 

Gilbert snorts. “Lud, does anything _ever_ happen to England?” But then he frowns. “Why do you ask?”

 

“I saw a scar on Austria’s arm. I noticed it as his sleeve rose up a bit.” This isn’t the only reason, of course, but for now, this is all Gilbert needs to know.

 

“It could be an old battle scar.”

 

“It could be,” Ludwig agrees. “But what if it’s...you know.”

 

Gilbert runs a hand through his platinum hair. “Ludwig,” he says coldly, “If you haven’t noticed, we have a war to fight. Get your head out of other people’s shit. We’re invading Poland in _three days_ , and you’re worrying about some mark on some old pianist’s arm. _Focus,_ Ludwig, for pity’s sake.” And with that, he turns on his heels and stalks off, every bit the soldier and leader that he is.

 

* * *

 

 

A little-talked about fact: Gilbert has phases of food-related anxiety.

 

Ludwig has noticed this on and off over the centuries. It was especially bad during the European Potato Famine in the mid 1800s. As his people starved to death, Gilbert stopped eating whatever little that came on their table, claiming that the population needed it more, and he was an immortal and would survive.

 

The origins of this, Ludwig suspects, date back to a time before him. To a time when Prussia was still young, to a time before Old Fritz. There’d been a great famine and plague back then, between 1709 to 1711. Ludwig isn’t sure how these famines affect his brother’s mind, but they do, and ever since, Gilbert has had the tendency to starve himself when he’s extremely upset. He didn’t eat for a month after Frederick the Great died.

 

That’s why Ludwig notices when, during the celebratory dinner that follows the Poland blitz, his brother is playing with his food, and hasn’t taken a single bite in several minutes.

 

“Aren’t you eating?” Ludwig asks.

 

“I’m tired,” Gilbert replies, and he looks it, too. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

 

As he gets up, Ludwig’s hand reaches out to hold his arm. “Gilbert,” he says simply. “Eat.”

 

And to his astonishment, his brother sighs, before settling back down and eating the rest of his dinner without complaint. He goes to bed early, and Ludwig stays up much later, drinking and laughing with the other Party members.

 

It’s about midnight when he decides to turn in (it is a busy day tomorrow). As he passes the bathroom door, he can hear Gilbert (who else could it be?) vomiting into the commode.

 

Ludwig stops, and thinks back to the last time this happened. The night of the pogrom. So that had been self-inflicted too?

 

He pushes the door to open it, but this time it’s locked. His brother is too cautious to make the same mistake twice.

 

“What are you doing to yourself?” he whispers under his breath before pressing the bridge of his nose and quietly going to his room.

 

* * *

Spain’s mansion was destroyed in the bombings. He lives now in absolute squalor, half-starved and frail. But his green eyes are as bright as ever as they go wide in surprise when he opens the door. “H-hello there, Germany,” he stammers, drawing his body into himself ever so slightly. Germany has noticed he has this effect on the other nations. They submit so easily. They’re so afraid.

 

Poland and Czechoslovakia tried to resist him. Poland, especially, fought so hard. Now a million of his Jews are getting hunted down, and Poland himself is in prison. You can’t kill a personification. But you can slowly butcher their people. Poland cries in his sleep. Germany has watched him.

 

“Good morning, Spain,” Germany says quietly, pushing past him into the dirty apartment. Plaster chips from the walls, a few tiles are broken, there’s a layer of dust on everything. He wrinkles his nose. He has never liked messes.

 

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Spain continues, finally allowing himself to stand a little taller. Germany is speaking to a great former empire - he had expected no less than Spain’s pride - whatever he has left. “Is everything all right?”

 

“Everything is splendid.” He peers out of the window, at the street below. Some of the buildings have been bombed completely, leaving them a mere skeleton of what they once were.  He turns towards Spain. “Gilbert told me about your self-mutilation.”

 

“What?” Spain blurts out, and if possible, his skin goes even greyer. He puts a hand on the wall to steady himself.

 

“During the Inquisition,” Germany continues.

 

“I know what you’re talking about.” Spain’s eyes darken, and suddenly, he’s got a frown reminiscent of a seafaring butcher. Germany can almost imagine him with his red coat and halberd, commanding the oceans, raping civilisations. He’s standing straight and tall, arms to his side. “It’s got nothing to do with you, Ludwig.” He says Germany’s name like an angry adult. As if to imply, _shut your mouth, you petulant little child. You think you’re so powerful now, but we’ve all been there, we’ve all fallen from pedestals. One day, you will too. So shut up, and don’t poke your nose in other people’s business._

 

“Why did you do it?” Germany presses. He hopes he doesn’t sound nervous. Frankly, he’s been getting jolts of anxiety all morning, and his arms are scratched raw. His sleeves rub against his skin and burn him.

 

“I can’t believe he told you,” Spain mutters, turning his back on Germany and going to the kitchen. “I’m disgusted.”

 

“Careful, Spain,” Germany warns.

 

“This has nothing to do with politics, and I’m going to speak my goddamn mind,” Antonio snaps back. He’s leaning over the sink, breathing deeply to calm himself. “You and Gilbert, terrorising all of Europe, all the _world_ , really - I mean, that’s _fine_ , war is war, you do what you think you have to do. You’d be hard-pressed to find a country that hasn’t fought a goddamn war. I’m a big kid, I can deal with it. But this is personal, and it has _nothing_ to do with you. And don’t come here and threaten me, Ludwig, I’ve changed your fucking diapers.” Antonio turns back, and yes, his glare is as powerful as Ludwig remembers. Neither moves for a second, until Spain’s eyes suddenly go wide again, and a dark, disgusted smile forms on his lips. “Oh, wait a second. I know what’s happening.”

 

Germany’s heart twists. These days it takes a lot for Ludwig to feel threatened, but Antonio has a way of getting inside your head. He’s evil, really. Antonio understands genocide very well, after all. Where did all his great wealth come from? _Our life is made by the death of others,_ thinks Ludwig. It’s a Leonardo da Vinci quote that Feliciano had mentioned once.

 

“You,” Antonio says calmly, approaching Ludwig, “have been feeling self-harm urges.”

 

Ludwig is dressed in a military uniform, and Antonio is wearing some old rags. But Ludwig still feels himself shrink under Spain’s callous grin.

 

“Is it true, then? The rumours?” Antonio continues, circling him. “Do you really have camps?”

 

Ludwig swallows. “You’re not supposed to know about the camps.”

 

“Then you ought to control the gossip,” Antonio retorts coolly. “It’s true, though, Ludwig, isn’t it? You have camps. How many Germans have you and Gilbert killed?”

 

“Not Germans,” Ludwig corrects. “The Jews, the Romas, the fags.”

 

Antonio starts to laugh. “You absolute moron.”

 

“Spain, I’m warning you.”

 

“Oh, what will you do? Bomb me? There really isn’t much left to destroy, Germany. My country’s hanging by a thread, the people are starving, the economy has collapsed. The Civil War has destroyed me. I have nothing left to lose.” He glares down Germany. “I am not afraid of you, Ludwig.”

 

Ludwig wants to lower his gaze, but he doesn’t. He has a reputation, after all. “The Inquisition.”

 

Antonio shrugs. “It’s what happens, Ludwig. You can’t murder hordes and hordes of your own people, you can’t torture them, without it affecting you. Now you may think that the people you kill are _different_ , that they are somehow not _German_ , but Germany was their home, and that’s what matters.” He pauses. “How’s Gilbert, by the way?” Antonio drawls. “Starving himself again?”

 

Ludwig tenses.

 

Antonio just smirks. “A nation cannot destroy its people without destroying itself. It’ll do you good to remember that.”

 

* * *

Dachau. Buchenwald. Flossenburg. Neuengamme. These words are not foreign to Ludwig. He hears them often when the higher-ups talk. Jew. Romani. Homosexual. _Other_ , he thinks. Filth. The enemy. The camps will cleanse him, he knows this.

 

But just the thought of them. It makes him tremble. And scratch. These days, he gets his relief from digging his nails into his arms and scratching them until his skin is raw and there are raised impressions all over. It eases the anxiety. Momentarily.

 

But there’s a goodness to it too, because he knows that he’s ridding his body of the filth and slime that has plagued it for years. Nothing beautiful comes without a little bit of pain, and Germany is perfect. Hitler told him so. Germany is above them all.

 

Hitler loves Prussia too, but differently. Hitler likes Frederick the Great. Hitler likes Bismarck. Hitler loves the ferocity of the Prussian soldier.

 

But Hitler thinks Gilbert is _vile._

 

Gilbert is albino. He has white skin, red eyes and platinum hair. He burns easily in the sun. He looks ugly. Like a monster. Like a freak. And if Gilbert were not the personification of the beloved Prussia, Hitler would send him packing, straight to _Dachau, Buchenwald, Flossenburg, Neuengamme._ Like a Jew. Like a Homosexual. Like the Romani. Like the Other.

 

Only Germany can be perfect. Only Ludwig can be perfect.

 

He can. He is.

 

More beautiful than anybody else. Stronger, lovelier, greater, than anybody else.

 

He is Germany, unstoppable Germany.

 

So he picks up a brand new razor and presses it into his scratched-out, abused arms. He has fantasised about this for so long. Germany has to be beautiful. He has to be pure. He must cut out the ugliness from him. Perfection is a painful thing.

 

* * *

 

_February 1943, somewhere in Hell_

 

“Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream…”

 

Gilbert is lost deep inside his mind, whispering the words of an American nursery rhyme he’d learnt before the start of the twentieth century, before it all went bad. His right leg is useless: covered in blood, filled with bullets, and frozen in the ice. France had once complained that General Winter had made him lose to Russia.

 

This is Russia, Ludwig thinks. The great fiend of Europe. This is what war really looks like. Without Hitler whispering in his mind, without _Mein Kampf_ doing circles around his head, this is what war is. It is terror. Starvation. Fear. Agony.

 

“Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream…”

 

Ludwig can barely support his brother’s weight anymore. This used to be a city, once. It used to be Stalingrad. Now it is a wasteland. Now it’s like Hell. There is so much blood in the snow, there are so many bodies. Ludwig is shaking, and his tears have frozen on his cheeks. Gilbert is so frail, but Ludwig can barely lift him. His own body is rattled with badly patched-up injuries, and his ears still ring from the roar of battle.

 

“Russia,” he says brokenly.

 

The nation lets out a high, deranged laugh. There is blood running down Ivan’s face, and one violet eye is open, gleaming at the Germans. His lips are parted, his teeth white like the snow. In his hands is a rifle. “I will kill you, Germany and Prussia, I will kill you and kill you until there’s nothing left.” He takes a step forward, and sounds giddy with joy. “You attacked _me_ , Germany? Your _ally_ , Germany? We could have done great things! Do you remember how we partitioned Poland? Wasn’t it fun? Why did you do this to me, Germany? What have I done to you, Prussia?”

 

Gilbert raises his head, and the off-tune hum on his lips stops. The two nations stare at each other, Prussia blankly, and Ivan with barely-controlled excitement. Russia takes another step towards them. “This battle will be remembered for many years, don’t you think so, Germany?” he asks, so dangerously, madly cheerful.

 

“I told you he’s a crazy bastard,” Gilbert finally says, and hearing his brother sound so _normal_ makes Ludwig nearly cry with relief. “He’s been hurt and broken so many times,” Gilbert continues.

 

This time, Ivan hears. “Prussia, you’re so sympathetic to me, you’re such a _kind_ person, Prussia, we have such an interesting history, but you had to _ruin_ it, didn’t you? You hurt me before, Prussia, so I hurt you back, and it was okay because we decided we wouldn’t hurt each other, and then we were friends, and now you betrayed me, why did you do that?” Tears slip down Ivan’s cheeks and fall to the snow as frost. But he’s still smiling. “We were friends, we were friends, Prussia, but then you _hurt me again_ , so now I must hurt you back. And this battle is over, and I have won, but this war is not over, my friend. And I will take the war to you, okay, Germany? Because when this ends, I will destroy your cities and cause you pain, is that okay, Germany?”

 

Germany has no bravado left to talk back, so he just stands there, mute, as Russia raises his rifle and points it towards them. “I could shoot you now,” Ivan says, “But I will not. When this is over, Germany, you will shoot yourself.”

 

* * *

 

  _Epilog/Epilogue_

 

_30th April 1945_

 

“Prussia.” Up goes the blade, then down goes the blade, up, down, see-saw. “Prussia.” His arms are so red, so coated in blood, they rain through his sleeves and drip onto the bunker floor. “Brother.”

 

Outside Hitler’s bunker, Berlin is painted red: blood and the Soviets gush through the streets, and somewhere out there is Prussia, fighting for the threadbare empire. Ludwig can feel it. He can feel his women scream - it sends shivers over his gashed-out skin - he can feel them scream as their bodies are invaded. Children have firearms, because if they refuse to die for the Fatherland, they will be killed.

 

“Germany,” Hitler had said, “you have betrayed me. Your people have betrayed me.”

 

“No! No, I - I _tried_ , Mein Fuehrer, I -”

 

“They could not comprehend my vision. They were cowards. You are a coward.”

 

up goes the blade and down goes the blade and up goes the blade and down goes the blade and up goes the blade and down goes the blade again and again and again

 

The Fuehrer shoots himself and Ludwig passes out, and when he comes to, it is with agony in his bones and someone’s soft lips ghosting over his forehead. “I told you, didn’t I, Ludwig? A nation cannot destroy its people without destroying itself.”

 

Spain’s emerald eyes swim in and out of view, and all Ludwig can choke out his, “Gilbert.”

 

But Spain is gone, and Hitler is gone, and over six million Others are gone, and Germany is perfect but there’s no one left to see it.

**Author's Note:**

> Rainbow unicorn ponies with cupcakes and ice cream, colourful sprinkles and chocolate sauce, warm hugs, fuzzy puppies, best friends, blankets, strawberry milkshake, winning the lottery, cute jackets, nice boots, good hair days, Star Wars, Harry Potter, Doctor Who, raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles, warm woollen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with strings, these are a few of my favourite things!
> 
> I can’t think of more cheerful stuff right now, but this story needed something to lighten it. 
> 
> If you've made it so far, wow. Thanks for reading...whatever the hell that was. I'm sorry it was so dark. I'd written this ages ago in one of my sadder moods, and I found it on my computer. It's a thought that has made me wonder for a while anyway. If a nation kills its own people, isn't that nation actually intentionally hurting itself? I had to explore it. And, well, yeah, I've done that.
> 
> *hugs*. Now go cuddle a puppy. You've earned it. Thanks for reading! Please comment!


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